


All That Is Left

by Kawaiibooker



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-08-28 10:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16721250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiibooker/pseuds/Kawaiibooker
Summary: A collection of drabbles and prompt responses posted on tumblr. Sorted by post date.





	1. Always

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed.
> 
> I really like stretching my writing muscles with smaller prompts and request once in a while, but I feel silly posting fics under 1k by themselves so they'll be collected here c:
> 
> Please note most of these will be Charthur. Individual tags and warnings will be provided in front of every chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by anon: "Charles going back to the grave each year to fill Arthur in on what's been happening. Cleaning it and making sure the cross is still there. Giving him flowers."
> 
> Tags: Post-Game, Grief/Mourning, Spoilers for Chapter 6
> 
> Warning for canonical character death.

Every year around the same time Charles disappears from Beecher’s Hope and comes back a few days later. It’s a peculiar habit, a little stranger now that they have a warm hearth and comfortable beds to return to - however, while the man has become considerably more personable since their reunion, Charles can still be intensely private about some aspects of his life.

A few years in, John finally asks him about it, because it has always been hard for him to leave mysteries well enough alone and this one just won’t let him go. Charles had just gotten off his horse, rubbing his hands against the cold creeping up on them day by day.

Soon, winter will cover everything in white, oddly reminiscent of those few weeks they spent crossing the Grizzlies, a long time ago.

Charles merely shrugs, walking past John and inside to warm up. “I figured Arthur would want some company, you know?” He says it in a casual tone, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “He always liked staying on top of what’s going on. Hope you don’t mind me sharing the gossip.”

John opens his mouth, throat a little tight, strangled, almost. The mention of Arthur always manages to catch him off guard, somehow, even a decade later. Before he can get a word in, Charles pats him on the back and shakes his head with a smile.

“It’s okay, John. You, Abigail, little Jack… Just live to see the next day. Make something out of this ranch, grow old, all that stuff. It’s the best way to honor his memory.”

And that was that. John hadn’t said anything more, afterwards. Just made Charles some coffee, looked for Jack and asked him about his books, kissed Abigail goodnight and got up in the morning to do it all again.

Still, Charles doesn’t seem surprised that, the year after, John is already in the saddle and ready to go when the first leaves start to fall.

 


	2. Forever Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minific for [danudaine](http://danudaine.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Tags: Post-Game, Deer!Arthur, Spoilers for Chapter 6
> 
> Warning for canonical character death.

Whenever Charles is in a particular part of the woods, he hears soft steps following him. He stops, turns: there's a deer half-hidden between the trees, gaze firmly on him. Not running away or particularly tense, just looking on, curious.

"Hey", Charles greets, quietly - just between them, an admission that isn't meant to be heard beyond this forest. "Been a while, huh?"

The deer's ear twitches. It blinks, walks closer, keeping up as Charles goes on; and Charles smiles, starts telling a story of a man he once loved and lost, and how sometimes, when he's lucky, he sees a familiar shade of blue in the gentle bloom of a flower, or the spread wings of a bird, and remembers.

"Sometimes I forget to look", he confesses to the deer, somber. "You don't, do you? You're always waiting, when I come.”

They are crossing the last line of trees. The deer stops and so does Charles, the distance between them easly crossed in a few steps. Charles doesn't, though. He knows it's not how it's meant to be.

"I'll return, when I can", he promises instead, as he always does, and walks on, the gaze of the deer on his back until he disappears out of sight.

 


	3. Lead Me Home (To You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saw [this post](https://hysterialevi.tumblr.com/post/180402223002/got-mauled-by-that-bear-and-now-i-kinda-wish) and just had to write a little something for it...
> 
> Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Arthur Whump, Aftermath of Violence
> 
> Warning for blood and somewhat graphic descriptions of wounds.

Had Arthur been in any other state, he'd probably huffed out a laugh at how predictable Charles's startled “Who's– Arthur?!” is once he nears the camp.

As it is, he can barely see far enough to realize he actually made it back. His vision is a jumbled blur with the blood dripping into his eyes, and his head pounds like a war is being fought between his temples. All Arthur could do was press a spare shirt he found against the slick mess of his neck, the fabric quickly drenched – his horse did most of the leg work, afterwards.

That bear really meant business when it charged. Arthur is vaguely surprised it didn't finish the job properly.

Before he knows it, Arthur is sliding, falling out of his saddle and into strong arms that prevent him from eating dirt. Dazedly, he muses, _always there to catch me_ , blinking up at Charles's eyes and watching them narrow under a worried frown.

“It wouldn't have to if you tried _not_ getting yourself killed for a change. Come on, this way.”

 _Ah._ Coughing, Arthur mumbles, “Sorry, Charles”, the guilt stirring in his guts merely adding to the nauseating spinning of the world around him. He lets himself be half-dragged, half-carried the last few yards, wheezing out an _oof_ as he's sat down in his cot.

It's a distant echo of the pain currently frying his every nerve. Arthur struggles to keep track of Charles's movements and the curses he murmurs under his breath; between one blink and another, he finds himself swaying, held steady only by the firm grip to his arm. There's a commotion, beyond that – a variety of voices calling his name, hazy silhouettes coming closer.

And Arthur squints, can't see, can't grasp anything beyond– “Charles...”

“Yeah, I'm here. You're gonna be okay, hmm?” Charles's voice is soothingly deep, calm despite the tense clench of his jaw. Slightly louder: “Hey, give him some space, will you?”

They do. The pressure on Arthur's chest eases and he inhales, wincing as it pulls at his chest, his neck. His face stings, the entire right side of it numb with pain.

“M–my eye, Charles, 's it...?”

It's a mystery how Charles can make out a single word of what he's saying but he looks up from where he's tending to Arthur's neck, checks, with one thumb on Arthur's mangled eyebrow and one under his lid, damp with blood. “Looks okay to me, Arthur”, he says softly, swallows. “Hard to tell, though.”

Arthur nods, tries to re-focus all his energy on _not passing out_ as his wounds burn under the chemical sting of hydrogen peroxide. Charles doesn't mention anything else, but there's an unhappy twist to his mouth, and he pauses more than once to let Arthur breathe.

Later, much later, with painkillers keeping the worst off it at bay and Arthur's head pillowed against Charles's thigh, he traces the border of the bandages tied diagonally across his face, brushing back Arthur's hair gently. Arthur hums, slipping a little closer to blissful sleep.

“What the hell happened out there?”

The words should've been harsh but Charles just sounds _tired_ , his tone rougher than usual. And Arthur knows, as he forces himself awake, that an answer is the least he owes the man who – for some mystical reason he can never quite figure out – stays by his side despite the constant shitfest that seems to be waiting for him around every corner.

He makes to sit up but Charles's hand on his head _holds_ , not really pushing but not giving a single inch, either. Arthur huffs, “Felt like gettin' the Marston treatment, 's all”, and again, Charles's exasperated sigh is expected.

“Arthur...”

“Bear want'd a piece 'a me”, Arthur amends, quietly, “Dumb mistake. Barely got away at all... Kinda hopin' it'll at least scar pretty, what d'ya think?”

The soft touches to his hair resume. “With your luck? Probably.” A pause. “You know, if you wanted us to match you could've just bought a pair of shirts, or something.”

Arthur chuckles hoarsely, closing his eyes.

“Keepin' that in mind next time, Charles.”

 


	4. Safe With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by anon: "Ok ok but a Arthur x Charles headcanons of when Micah is sitting around in camp and he sees Charles and says “hey redskin go get me something to eat” just like imagine Arthur losing he’s shit he’s like oh no you don’t not at my boyfriend hell no you fat pig and everyone’s camp has to stop them from fighting and everyones all kinda confused as to why Arthur is so mad and like some cute fluff at the end."
> 
> Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Violence, General Micah Nastiness.
> 
> Warning for racial slurs, misogyny, blood and injury.

“Hey, redskin–“

Arthur raises his head, the pencil he’s holding stopping in the middle of the sentence. Easily recognizable by his grating voice, it’s the ugly sneer on Micah’s already less than fortunate face that ignites a glimmer of anger in his chest – and when Micah makes a move towards Charles, it instantly roars to a furious blaze.

_Not this again._

“–say, ain’t yer Momma around somewhere? I could use a good fuck, and I don’t see yer people doin’ anythin’ useful for this country otherwise.”

Charles barely reacts, just a quick glance and a tense sigh as he turns away; and he wrings his big hands in front of his chest, shoulders hunched so Micah can’t see but Arthur catches a glimpse from where he sits by the pier, and his heart clenches once, painfully.

Because Charles is not easy to read yet after weeks and months Arthur  _can_ , and this is the clearest tell the man has.

Micah’s mocking grin only grows bigger, shark-like as he starts following him–

The pencil in Arthur’s hand snaps clean in two.

In hindsight, Arthur can’t remember crossing the distance between the shore and the first tents of the camp. All he’s aware of is the war song his heart beats against his throat, and how Sean pales a little as he jumps out of his way with a “Oi, what’s got you so–“ but Arthur marches past, roughly tugging the sleeves of his shirt up.

“Micah!”

And yes, the sliver of surprise and fear in Micah’s eyes is something Arthur will treasure for days to come but at the moment _it doesn’t matter_. What matters is that he’s between Charles and Micah, and a different kind of emotion flashes across Micah’s features then.

“Ah, I shoulda known! There he comes, our very own Prince Charming to rescue the sav–“

Arthur doesn’t let him finish that disgusting word, his fist meeting the firm line of Micah’s jaw with a wet  _crunch_  that sends the other man reeling, stumbling back – Arthur doesn’t allow himself to pause for the blinding pain radiating from his own fingers, setting after him in big strides.

“Ya slimy–“, he knees him in the stomach, watches him double over, “–lowlife–“, grabs his hair and pulls him up, fist raised for another punch, “–sack a'shit–“

The glint of a knife, poised to strike–

Suddenly, he can’t move, his entire upper body immobilized by arms that wrap around his shoulders and drag him back. Micah watches, laughs that maniacal cackle of his, smile red and dripping with blood.

“ _No_ ”, Arthur pants out, throwing all his weight against the grip but it’s made of steel and doesn’t budge an inch. Another step is lost and he growls, bares his teeth like an animal.

“Lemme strangle that son of a bitch–“

“Arthur–“

“That’s enough!”

Dutch’s booming voice breaks through the rush of blood in Arthur’s head; he crashes back to reality, the tunnel of his vision cutting away to the variety of judging looks from those gathered in a loose circle around them. Susan, disappointed; Bill, annoyed; Sean, vaguely excited now; Javier, satisfied–

And in his ear, the too-calm voice of Charles muttering for him to  _stop struggling_ , and Arthur finally does, meeting the cold wrath in Dutch’s stare defiantly. He plants his feet back on solid ground, shaking off Charles’s hand around his bicep, one last reminder to hold back.

“He went too far.”

Arthur spits at Micah’s feet, wiping his hand over his sweating face and leaving a streak of crimson on his cheek. His hand throbs with the pulse running a mile a minute in his veins. Arthur ignores it.

“’s that how ya want this to go, Dutch? Huh? What happened to bein’ family?”

Dutch’s eyes narrow. Somewhere deep within, a small voice in Arthur’s head is telling him to shut up, _now_.

“I said  _enough_ , Arthur. Go get yourself cleaned up. I’m not telling you again.”

Arthur throws his hands up, “can’t fuckin’ believe y'all sometimes”, he hisses under his breath as he pushes past Charles and away, ignoring the soft call of his name.

*

He plans on seething in solitude for as long as it takes to get a grip on himself, maybe throwing a rock or twenty into the lake and watch them skate across the water, but Charles disagrees with that plan, it seems, because it couldn’t have been more than an hour when Arthur feels the familiar tingle of his presence at his back.

Arthur sends another stone flying and grunts in frustration as it skips only once before sinking.

“Save it. ’m not in the mood for a lecture.”

Charles says nothing, doesn’t even breathe that fond-exasperated huff he reserves for when Arthur’s being particularly stubborn. He just… joins his side, picks up a rock and throws.

Skip,  _plunk._  Arthur’s brows rise, surprise and worry mixing with the anger still lodged deep behind his lungs somewhere.

“You okay?”

And there it is, the huff, quieter than usual. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk”, Charles says instead of answering the damn question, and Arthur figures he deserves it.

It’s the exact reason he didn’t want company, actually. He doesn’t like himself on a good day but like this, with the weight of Charles’s wordless judgement on his shoulders, all he wants is to walk into the woods and never come back.

Another stone, another failed attempt. Arthur sighs, scratches his beard, shame roiling in his gut. “Look, ’m sorry”, he mumbles eventually, when he can’t stand the silence anymore.

“Dunno what got into me, I jus’… snapped, I guess.”

Charles looks at him then, the dark brown of his iris almost indistinguishable from the endless depths of his pupils, and for the first time in a long, long while, Arthur has no idea what’s going on behind that gaze.

Then Charles opens his mouth, and there’s a rough edge to his voice even if it doesn’t rise much above the soft murmuring of the waves lapping against shore.

“Thank you for that.”

It’s the opposite of what Arthur expected, and some of that must show because Charles shakes his head lightly, a silent  _I can’t believe you sometimes_  that Arthur can hear perfectly in his mind.

“I didn’t come to chew you out, Arthur. It’s just– Been a while since someone fought for me, I didn’t… expect that. Means a lot.”

“Charles, I–“ Arthur stops, hesitates, takes a deep breath to keep his voice even. “It shouldn’t even come to this, ya know that, right? Micah’s got nothin’ on ya, hell, ya could crush ‘em with jus’ yer pinky, probably. So why–?”

And all Charles does is shrug, a little helpless. It damn near breaks Arthur’s heart, to see him so  _defeated_.

“’s just not worth it. Highly doubt Dutch would let me stay if so, and I won’t risk that.” He glances away, pushes back his hair and only manages to make it a tad bit messier. “Besides, it’s not the worst I’ve heard. When you’re me, you don’t get to lose your temper. So you just… swallow it all down, and keep going.”

Arthur’s lungs are empty, like he can’t draw a proper breath – and this, this  _thing_  that made Arthur almost bash Micah’s skull in, is just a glimpse of the shit thrown Charles’s way… Quietly, Arthur says, “That ain’t makin’ it right”, because someone has to, and because he wants Charles to know–

“If– I’m not sayin’ ya need protectin’ or anythin’, but… I can help ya, Charles. Put in a word with Dutch, or, I dunno, get Pearson to poison Micah’s rations?”

Charles huffs out a laugh, nudging Arthur’s shoulder with his own. “Don’t sound so hopeful”, he admonishes without heat, and Arthur grumbles back, “a man’s gotta dream”, and he lets the moment of levity linger a beat before he shakes his head.

“I mean it though. Yer the best damn man we got, whoever’s dumb enough to try somethin’ will have to go through me first.”

He meets Charles’s look evenly, dead serious, and Charles nods, eventually.

“Do me a favor?”

Arthur nods, too. “Shoot.”

“Next time, hit with your knuckles. Hurts him just as good, and your hand won’t be busted afterwards.”

Again, not exactly what Arthur expected. He looks at the back of his hand and his aching fingers, slightly swollen, and shrugs.

“Eh. Figure as long as the other guy’s lookin’ worse, I ain’t doin’ so bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely based on [this camp interaction between Micah and Charles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-SPJErP_Kqs).
> 
> Sorry for the lack of updates towards my main fic - uni's got me stressed atm, but I'm hoping to be able to write properly this weekend ;w;


	5. Like Real People Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a gift for [banana_maia](https://twitter.com/banana_maia).
> 
> Tags: Fluff, The Boys Wearing Fancy Clothes (Because I Said So)
> 
> No warnings. Enjoy!

The vest's fabric is shiny, snug against his waist. Arthur turns slowly, squinting critically at his reflection in the opulent three-piece-mirror.

“I don't know, Arthur...”

There's a strange hesitance in Charles's tone; that alone makes Arthur glance over his shoulder, the tentative worry in his chest melting into an amused huff. Skepticism has Charles's brows pushed together in a severe frown – he's holding up a similarly sleek-looking dress shirt.

“We gotta look the part, Charles. Ain't gonna last a single hour down there without becomin' the talk'a the town.”

Charles grumbles under his breath. A few muffled steps on the carpet and he's at Arthur's side, watching him try on a matching coat.

“What d'ya think?”

“Fancy.”

 _Still sulking, then._ Arthur nudges him with his shoulder, catching his gaze in the mirror. Charles raises a stubborn eyebrow.

“C'mon. For me?”

Charles sighs, “Fine”, tugging his beloved dotted shirt up and over his head. Arthur makes use of that moment of abstraction to pull him by his belt and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, brushing a few ruffled strands of his hair back into place.

“Thanks, handsome.”

The corners of Charles's mouth twitch upwards. “Mh.”

Yeah, maybe it is a little ridiculous: Even Arthur's collection of get-ups and disguises – quite substantial after being in the business for so long – wasn't sufficient to cover for the stake-out Dutch tasked them with. Men like Arthur and Charles, they could only dream of ever owning the appropriate clothes to truly blend into the crowd at Saint Denis's most exclusive saloon.

It took some real convincing to make Javier part with one of his most expensive ties, or _cravat_ , as the man insisted on calling it.

Its silky texture makes Arthur's hands look rough and overly clumsy; he stumbles through the technique Javier showed him to tie it properly, running a finger between neck and collar afterwards. “Downright suffocatin', this stuff”, Arthur mutters, forcing himself to stop fussing over it. “Dunno why Javier likes 'em so much.”

Charles hums from where he's pulling the feathers out of his hair, setting them aside with care. While the burgundy shirt and matching gray dress pants fit him like a glove, the sight aches, lodging itself like a knife between Arthur's ribs.

“How 'bout we swing by the plains on the way back?”, he offers quietly, gesturing for the bow-tie in Charles's hand. In a few swift movements, he buttons up the shirt, loops the tie around his neck gently.

“Saw a herd of wild paints the other day. Legs like tree trunks and fast as the wind, they were. Thought they could be a nice challenge for Taima.”

Charles smiles like he _knows_ , he always does – he takes Arthur's hand and kisses his knuckles, runs his thumb over the scars there. “I'd like that.”

And Arthur? The soft gesture has him damn near blushing. He nods, says, “It's a date, then”, already counting the minutes and seconds until they can leave the city limits behind for good.

*

The early hours of the morning are filled with birdsong and the distant snorting of horses. Arthur puts his head in his neck and _breathes_ , in, out, the alcohol in his system leaving him pleasantly buzzed.

“Now this”, he mumbles, eyes closed. “This is somethin' else.”

There's no immediate response, and that's alright. Charles has been quiet all night, tense in clothes that aren't his, but out here, his silence is a comfortable thing. Familiar like the warmth of his presence beside him, one Arthur finds himself gravitating towards automatically these days.

They've been sitting like this for what must've been a few hours, legs dangling off a ledge with the perfect view of the plains below. The pricey bottle of rum Arthur nicked on their way out is half-empty; it's good stuff, imported, missing the bitter tang that makes cheap drink what it is.

Arthur takes another sip and passes it to Charles, watches him do the same. The collar of his shirt is unbuttoned, bow-tie off and forgotten somewhere, revealing the shifting muscles of his throat. His wandering gaze lingers briefly on the feathers that are back where they belong, swaying in the wind.

Arthur smiles. He shakes his head, looks ahead to the far-off horizon where the sun is starting to come up.

“Can ya imagine bein' one'a them rich folk, sittin' in a fancy saloon all day long? Thinkin' that's all life has to offer...”

“Hardly.” Charles sniffs, leans back. “Living in a world made for you, never having to question your place in things... Those people are blind but it's not like they ever had to be anything else.”

“Yeah, guess you're right.”

This time, when their arms brush it's not to tease but to soothe. Arthur leans against Charles, resting his cheek on the arch of his shoulder.

“I reckon tomorrow'll be an eye-openin' day for some of 'em.”

That gets a chuckle out of Charles, at least. “Definitely.”

They watch the horses for a while, their patchwork coats like artwork in the morning light. Perhaps some other day they'll come back to catch a few and break them in, keep the best and sell the rest–

But for now, for this moment between night and day, Arthur is content: with Charles by his side and the open sky above. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something between commissions <3
> 
> (Pssst [Maia's art](https://twitter.com/banana_maia) is beautiful and y'all should follow them...)

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://kawaiibooker.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/kawaiibooker)


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